by Betty Younis
Had Dudley played a role in his wife’s death? Had his ambition finally gotten the better of him? Perhaps he had decided to trust no longer to Fate to provide for his wife’s demise and put him beside Elizabeth on the throne. So she had immediately sent Dudley away and he, in turn, had called for a full and open investigation of his wife’s death. He could do nothing else if he wished to maintain a shred of innocence. Meanwhile, the scandal was hot and threatened to engulf Elizabeth’s authority and virtue. She had no idea how to handle it, for the simple reason that she had no idea if Dudley had been involved. Like everyone else, she knew his ambitions, but she found it hard to think him capable of such a foolish and cold act.
She sighed deeply. So much had changed for her since the coronation, and now this. Robert Dudley was more than a friend to her, and their relationship ran deep and long into her past. With so many people demanding so many things and with her reign barely under way, she desperately needed the counsel of those with whom she shared some past history, and he was one of the few. And now. She had survived the tempestuous and stormy reigns of Edward and Mary, with all their fanaticism and paranoia. Would she survive this, she wondered? No, she sighed again. This was not Hatfield.
She realized that for some time her steed had been picking its way along an established path. When the wind reached beneath the trees and its gusts swept the forest floor, she could see it as well. It was an old one, worn almost to a rut, and narrow – it could not even support two horses abreast. As she began to pay attention, she noted that the trail was weaving its way to an open meadow nearby. Sure enough, within five minutes she had cleared the deep autumn gloom of the woods and stood in a pastureland bordered by the wood, the river, and a high ridge across the way. After a moment, more out of curiosity than anything else, she gave her mount rein and he once again began following an old, rutted and narrow track. The tall grasses and flowers of the summer, now dry and whispery, caught at her boots and skirt hem as she continued on. How could there be a path? This was the queen’s wood and the queen’s land. Neither Edward nor Mary had ridden. It could only be one that her father had used, and used often enough to have worn a familiar groove in the earth. But where did it lead – where did he visit with such regularity? She looked around as her horse continued across the field at a leisurely pace, pausing now and again to sample first this oat grass, now that dried flower head. An almost unconscious curiosity to see where it led set in, and, as the horse continued on, she returned to her mulling of the news of Dudley and his wife.
Once across the meadow her steed paused at a sharp bend in the path. Elizabeth glanced about. She could continue on the same path which now began to hug the bank of the Thames as it meandered beyond a bend, or she could ride up to the top of the high ridge and see what lay beyond. Knowing that Cecil would shout if she stayed out all day, she decided upon the latter as a better course of action. It would allow her to see what was on the other side and that might possibly explain why her father had come along this way so often. No doubt she would be met by the sight of a forest where the hunting was fine. Elizabeth pulled sharply on the reins and began her ascent up the steep and craggy hill. Her retinue followed at a respectful distance, but as she finally crested the last knob she let out a pleased shout and called them forward.
The hill was not the highest, but its situation allowed a breathtaking view of its immediate environs. She could see the tops of Greenwich Palace, the woods through which she had just come, and she could trace the Thames along its wandering path for some distance until it was swallowed up by mist and hills and hamlets. It was a stunning view, and she believed she now understood why her father had so often come here. Why not, since it was quiet, scenic and laid the kingdom out before its sovereign like a rolling and bejeweled quilt.
“This is lovely!” she exclaimed. “I must ride here more often!”
“Indeed Majesty, I believe it is one of the finer views of the surrounding areas I have ever seen.”
Elizabeth barely heard the courtier for she had noticed that on the far side of the hill were not the woods she had anticipated but a small manor house set some distance away. Smoke curled from its chimneys, and she noted the careful layout of the grounds which surrounded it. She turned to her retinue and motioned in the direction she continued to gaze.
“Tell me, what manor house is that? Is this not the Queen’s property?”
The silence which met her question was deafening. She looked at her retinue.
“Did you not hear me?”
This time, coughing and averted gazes were her only answer.
“You there, Lord William, I am asking you directly: what is yon place? Now answer me!”
William, an older man with a graying beard and a dark cloak wrapped around his shoulders, responded.
“That is Coudenoure, my Queen, and it is not the Queen’s estate. Indeed, I have heard that this hill upon which we now rest is part of Coudenoure – the Crown’s land begins at the base which abuts the meadow.”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. Coudenoure. Yes, she knew the name but she could not put it in context.
“Tell me more of this estate,” she demanded.
William sighed but did as she wished.
“Madame, it is said that it was a favorite haunt of our late and good King Henry, your father.”
“Go on, man.”
William coughed again and continued.
“It is said that he spent a great deal of money on the grounds, and from here you can see much of his handiwork.” William pointed as he spoke. “He employed your grandfather’s architect, Robert Janyns, to lay out a place where a king might find respite. You can see the geometric symmetry of the place from here – ’tis lovely to behold, is it not?”
Elizabeth nodded.
“Did the Crown own Coudenoure at that time? Has it passed out of our possessions somehow?”
“No, Majesty, it has always been in the family of one Thomas de Grey, Baron Thomas de Grey. He served your grandfather with distinction at Bosworth. Indeed, it is said that he saved Henry’s life. In return, your grandfather granted him the small manor you see before you.”
“I understand, William, but why did my father spend money on an estate he did not own?”
William motioned for her to ride with him a short distance so that the others might not hear his words.
“Queen Elizabeth, I shall tell you all I know.”
She nodded impatiently.
“There is a rumor, well, now more of a legend, concerning this estate Coudenoure. As you can see, it is hidden quite away from the road which passes Greenwich Palace and which leads on to London. Indeed, one must traverse the old medieval road by the river in order to reach its gate.”
“And that is why my father spent his money on the place?” Elizabeth asked drily.
William smiled.
“It seems that in his youth, our good King Henry was pre-contracted to the only daughter, nay the only child, of Thomas de Grey. It is said that he loved her more than life itself, and that their love was of an uncommon kind.”
“What kind would that be?” she asked laughing. “I want to hear you expound on the special love my father had for a child of his youth.”
“It was a love that represented all that meant something to him in this world. The woman, and her name was Elizabeth as well, Majesty, had known him since childhood. They had grown up together and considered these woods…” he pointed to the forest on the far side of the meadow, “…to be their playground. Henry was treated as a son by the old man de Grey, and together, the three of them seemed to form some kind of familial bonds. You must remember, Majesty, that your father was a second son for many a year. Accordingly, until the death of our beloved Arthur, he was free to explore and mingle with others. And at Coudenoure, he was treated as the other children were – he was free to romp and play, and he knew that he was beloved for himself alone, not for his position.”
Elizabeth looked at him and smiled wistf
ully.
“’Tis what we all long for in this world, is it not? Family, friends, security.”
William nodded and continued.
“Indeed, Majesty, and at Coudenoure, Henry found his bearings. He came to manhood secure in the knowledge of the place and of the people who lived there. All of it – the servants, the grounds and Elizabeth and her father – all of it represented a world of peace and sanctuary to him. And in times of difficulty in his reign it is said he always returned to the place to re-orient and refresh himself.”
Elizabeth was silent for a moment.
“And the woman? This Elizabeth? Clearly my father did not marry her. What was the outcome of that pre-contract pray tell.”
“Madame, I only repeat the legend.”
Elizabeth looked at him sharply. So there was more to the tale than he was letting on. She continued staring at him until he was forced to continue.
“Madame, a child was born to the woman, a child widely believed to be Henry’s child.”
“Why my father’s? It could have been anyone’s!”
“No, Majesty, it could not, for the child…the child…”
“Oh Lord, Mary and all the saints, man, say it!”
“The child, a girl, is so like unto our late good king that it could only be his. And remember, the love between the child’s mother and Henry continued throughout his life.”
“And what happened? Is she still alive?”
“No. Elizabeth died defending your father, Majesty, as her father died defending your grandfather. It seems the de Greys are loyal to the Tudors even unto death.”
“And the child?”
“At the time of the crisis that cost her mother her life, the child fled. For many years it was rumored that she lived in Rome. Indeed, I believe that to be the truth, for your father searched high and low for her. Forgive me Majesty, but it seems he was at Coudenoure often enough and long enough for the child to understand, and just as he formed an unbreakable bond with her mother, so he did with his daughter. But the rumors and the legends. All of that was many, many years ago. I daresay she died in Rome for otherwise surely the rumors would still circulate.”
“And this woman child had no desire to be queen?” Elizabeth asked guardedly.
William laughed.
“And that is why I believe the rumor to be true,” he explained, “For it is said that court and courtly life were anathema to both the king’s mistress and to her daughter. Indeed, ’tis why she fled, for there was fear she might be dragged hostage from Coudenoure in an effort to undermine your father Henry.”
“I can see that, yes,” Elizabeth said. “So now, why ’tis still standing? The old man is dead, the mistress is dead and the child disappeared long ago.”
“Ah, and that is another reason why I say it was an uncommon love which your father found with Elizabeth. For even after her death, he kept Coudenoure as it had been during their years together. Even now, I believe, it is maintained by the Crown, though it belongs to the de Greys.”
Elizabeth suddenly knew where she had heard the name before. In the account books of her myriad palaces, castles and manors, the smallest of them all was Coudenoure. It was one line at the bottom of the estate registry, and because it cost almost nothing, neither Edward nor Mary had bothered themselves with it. And if she had not come riding today, she would have gone that way as well. On impulse, she turned her horse and started back down the hill.
“We shall continue on to Coudenoure.”
Chapter Three
The road which led to Coudenoure was ancient in origin and only used by locals travelling the backways around Greenwich Palace. It had never risen far above its humble beginnings as a cow path and followed the contours of the land rather than tracing out a straight line. Those with proper wagons and horses or oxen, vendors with wares and travelers en route to greater places all used the main road which abutted the palace fortifications. Only those born and raised in the nearby hamlets even remembered the track’s existence. Despite its tortuous way, however, two small manor houses depended upon it for egress. One of these was Coudenoure, and the other that of the architect employed by Henry to shape its presence.
The turn which gave onto Coudenoure’s long, straight drive was barely visible amid the brambles which threatened to engulf it on all sides. A wall of limestone, built to a defensive height, showed itself behind the undergrowth. No gate connected the two sides of the fence across the drive, but etched in bold letters upon each of the limestone fence-posts which set it off, in large letters, was a message written fairly recently, for the moss and lichen had yet to settle in upon its surface:
To Queen Elizabeth We Pledge All
Elizabeth stopped and looked for a long time at the words. Whoever lived in this out of the way place proclaimed to the world their allegiance to the new queen, a brave move considering that some believed her hold upon the throne to be tentative at best. Perhaps William was right – perhaps this family, or whoever was currently living on the estate, did indeed give her support in her early going. She turned to her retinue.
“I shall proceed from here alone. You are to wait for me and I shall return when I am done.”
An uneasy glance passed among those with her. One of the guards jumped from his horse and spoke.
“Majesty, we do not know who or what lies beyond this fence. Surely ’tis a better plan to take cavalry with you?”
She shook her head vigorously.
“You have heard my decision. I shall join you anon.”
Using her riding crop to beat back the tallest of the briar bushes, she fought her way through the thicket. So intent was she on getting through the entrance and onto the drive proper that she failed to notice the view. When she looked up she smiled.
What a place! At the end of a long straight drive sat a perfectly proportioned and symmetrical manor house. Its large, limestone blocks shimmered in the morning sun while its diamond-paned windows caught each ray and reflected it back like a rainbow. Contrary to the exterior of the estate, the grounds within were pristine. The drive must have been raked that very morning for the sunlight had yet to dry the newly turned gravel. A low ha-ha separated the grounds immediately adjacent to the house from those farther out nearest the fence. Elizabeth rode slowly up the drive, drinking in the visual beauty of the place. An orchard was laid out with geometric precision on the west side of the house, but beyond that the ruins of an ancient sanctuary caught and held one’s gaze. High gothic windows graced the aged façade of what must at one time have been a truly marvelous church. Now, sunlight poured through the empty windows and what remained of the stone outline of the once grand structure was gray and weathered. Gone with time were the end walls and the interior – nothing was left but the skeletal ruins of two side structures.
As she studied the aged sanctuary, Elizabeth noticed a low stone barrier adjacent to it which enclosed an equally archaic cemetery. Her gaze might have continued on but she noticed a figure sitting within its bounds. On impulse, she steered her horse across the great lawn and rode to see who might be keeping the dead company on such a fine day. She dismounted and approached.
An old woman sat on a small bench near two headstones. She was speaking in a low voice and occasionally waved her cane at nothing in particular, and Elizabeth had to cough to make her presence known. The old woman turned and watched as Elizabeth approached but made no move to stand and bow before her sovereign.
“Good morning, old ma’am,” Elizabeth said, deciding to ignore the lack of protocol on the old lady’s part. “’Tis a lovely day, is it not?”
The old woman glanced up at the sky. The red scarf which had draped her hair fell backwards, and Elizabeth noted the white, sparse hair which it revealed. The face was refined, but like a looking glass dropped on a stone floor its quiet countenance was broken by a hundred lines and creases. After a moment, the old lady spoke.
“Aye, you are right, young missy.” She patted the stone bench beside her as s
he looked at Elizabeth.
“’Tis a very fine dress you have,” She eyed Elizabeth up and down. “You must be from the court at Greenwich.”
Elizabeth smiled gently. The old bird had no clue to whom she was speaking and the novelty amused her.
“I am indeed,” Elizabeth responded. “I had had enough of the palace this morning and wished to breathe some fresh air.”
She pointed at the distant ridge.
“I rode to the top of that hill and saw this lovely place and decided to see who might live here.”
The old lady nodded appreciatively.
“Well, you have come to Coudenoure, the estate of Thomas de Grey.” She raised her cane and rapped it sharply on the top of the nearest tombstone. “Thomas died some years ago now. It was that terrible day the northerners tried to steal Constance and do Henry harm – can you imagine such a thing? Thomas blocked the door to give young Charles time to get away with the child. They struck him down, they did, but Charles got away. You see, Thomas had indeed bought him enough time. ”
Her voice cracked and she closed her eyes as though remembering the moment from so long ago.
What had begun as a lark of a conversation for Elizabeth was now becoming quite interesting. She spoke quietly to the old lady to encourage her to continue. After a moment, the narrative resumed.
“Well, you see, as Charles bolted the stable, Henry came with his men from around that corner.”
She pointed back to the manor reliving the scene.
“Charles knew at once that he must first protect the king, and so he threw Constance to our servant Prudence and told her to hide in those woods.”
She smacked her gums together and nodded.
“Yes he did. And young Charles turned and defended Henry and together they killed the rebels.”
A long silence ensued. Finally, she tapped the gravestone again.
“Aye, Thomas was a fine man. His love of books was a sin, but he would never hear me on that subject.”
